It's the Quiet Ones You Have to Watch Out For
by Enigma-Eggroll
Summary: People want to make him out to be a Boy Scout, everything innocent and patriotic about America. That's part of his DNA, but Steve's a man, not a saint, and even saints have breaking points.


Some people get loud when they're angry. They wave their hands around, shout and get belligerent. They are the types who crave attention, and really don't care where they focus their anger, so long as someone is around to watch. Others get aggressive, pushing and shoving as they use their hands to articulate what their brains are incapable of saying. These people tend to be bullies, who, when confronted by someone with enough courage to stand up to their bullshit, turn tail and run away.

And then there's Steve Rogers, America's Sweetheart, poster boy of swooning girls everywhere. When he gets pissed, watch out, because it's more devastating than nuclear winter and scarier than coming clean about that wrecked car in high school. Most people think that Steve doesn't have a temper, but Darcy can tell you without a doubt that Steve does in fact have a wicked temper - he just has to be pushed far enough.

Rumors about Steve's temper have floated around the tower for months, something about him and Tony Stark facing off in the type of bitch/snark fest that would have heads spinning. Most people don't believe it, because all they see is the good in Steve, the man who goes out of his way to help others. Sure, he's kind, and wears his heart on his sleeve, but he's no sap. When others aren't around, and he knows he can let his guard down, Steve will let the intermittent _shit_ or _damn_ fly, and he's fine with crude humor, so long as it's not at someone's expense. People want to make him out to be a Boy Scout, everything innocent and patriotic about America. That's part of his DNA, but Steve's a man, not a saint, and even saints have breaking points.

The irony is, most people don't realize when their idols are about to go batshit. They never anticipate the attack, and after, they might not be sure why or where it came from. Especially not from someone who looks like he could spend the rest of his life posing for toothpaste ads in Brooks Brothers clothing.

"They've done a good job pulling this all back together," Steve says. They're in the lab, which has been partially restored after the Hulk's epic meltdown. All the debris is gone and workstations restored, but there's a still mountain of paper to sort through. As convenient as technology is, Bruce Banner is old-fashioned when it comes to research, printing out hard copies of everything to archive in huge three ring binders. When the Hulk went smash, it started snowing eight and half by eleven-inch laser paper, all of which now has to be organized and re-categorized for storage.

"Yeah, I have a feeling if you work for Tony Stark, you learn how to put Humpty Dumpty back together, fast," Darcy says. She's cross-legged on the floor, shuffling papers between decks with the type of skill associated with Las Vegas poker dealers. "Then again, Tony Stark never prints anything."

"Bruce is kind of a pack rat, I mean, look at this." Steve's shuffling through clippings, articles and other detritious that is clearly not in the notes or ramblings category. "If there's an article on gamma radiation, he has it."

"Some people collect shot glasses, Bruce on the other hand…." Darcy smiles and shakes her head. She won't claim to understand the darker corners of her bosses mind – he's far too complex to be reduced to sweeping generalizations. "Let's just say it's hard to be so brilliant."

"I guess," Steve concedes. "It just seems like a lot to carry around."

"There's irony in you saying that." Darcy slips a stack of papers into one of the binders, capping it off with a tabbed divider. "Honestly, I think we just need to find Bruce a nice girl with a soft spot for the color green."

She layers in two more stacks of research, stopping between each batch to jot down the tab number and categorization. Once everything is put away, she'll type up an index, printing one copy for reference while storing the other on the hard drive. Bruce may like his hard copies, but Darcy's the queen of back up. She's learned firsthand the merit of keeping multiple copies – there's no telling when some rogue government agency is going to swoop down out of nowhere and bogart the only copy.

"What's this?"

"Hmm?" Darcy's chewing on her lower lip, thinking about ghost drives and cloud backups, ways to make sure that Bruce always has a copy of his work. She glances up, ready to explain the randomness of one of the millions of articles Bruce keeps, for nothing more than the _what if_ connection to the hell he lives day in and day out.

But Steve isn't holding up an article or a newspaper clipping, it's not even a formula scribbled on a napkin. Somehow, buried in the endless reams of Bruce Banner's obsession, is the signed photo of Steve, left on Darcy's desk weeks ago. It must have been pressed in between two solid objects, the pressure smoothing out the worst of the creases. Steve's handsome face, caught in Technicolor brilliance, is still streaked with indelible lines, the force that Darcy applied when she crumpled the photo in a fit of insecurity. The only part truly unscathed is the writing, still bold red at the bottom. The X's and O's are a childish taunt now, even though it had crushed her under an ocean of insecurities the day it appeared.

"Oh that," she says, trying for all the world to sound nonchalant. "Nothing. I don't know why Bruce even saved it."

Darcy reaches out, her fingers just inches from the offensive object, but Steve jerks it back out of reach.

"I can tell this isn't _nothing_ by the way you're looking at it." His voice is flat, all inflection or emotion gone. Most people get more animated when they're angry, but Darcy's come to realize that Steve's anger is a different animal all together. All the affable, approachable charm fades away, replaced by a cutting chill that's downright startling. "Someone went out of their way to mess with you, to mess with _us_. They might find it funny, but I don't. "

He turns the photo, scanning the image and the writing. "You don't need to tell me who did it, that much I can figure out on my own. His handwriting is for shit," Steve pauses, taking a deep breath. "The larger question is why is Barton having a go at you? What's he have to gain out of it?"

Darcy sits back on the floor, her arms draping loosely around her knees. There's dirt under her fingernails, and the seat of her pants are going to be dirty when she stands up, but she doesn't care.

"What's anybody have to gain out of messing with someone else?" she counters. "It makes him feel better. His mom didn't tell him she loved him when he was little. He's got a small dick. Maybe he's jealous. It doesn't matter, Steve, honestly. It got under my skin, but I'm-"

It's the wrong thing to say. Darcy realizes that before she can stop, and her admission lands squarely in the center of the target. Steve jerks upright, his eyes narrowing into a glare that's downright scary.

"JARVIS?" he barks.

"Yes, Captain Rogers?"

"Where's Barton right now?"

"He's just left the firing range, sir, and is headed toward the northern elevator banks."

"Thank you."

Steve storms across the lab, sending papers flying in his wake. Darcy doesn't even try to right the damage as her neat stacks dissolve, she's too busy scrambling to her feet, flying after what she's realizing is a very pissed off, very protective boyfriend who could put a hole through a wall and not break a sweat.

"Steve, wait," she calls, running after him. The picture really isn't a big deal, at least, not anymore, but there's no putting that proverbial horse back in the stable now. He skips the elevator, busting through the fire door to the stair well. It's even harder to catch up with him there – Steve's legs are longer and he's in a hell of a lot better shape. The best Darcy can do is take the steps two at a time, praying that she doesn't fall or slam into the wall with each leap.

They spiral around in wide, looping arcs, descending flight after flight. She's never been down this far into the bowels of the Tower, and her knowledge is limited to rumors and anecdotes. Supposedly, a series of sub-basements sink deep into the earth, populated with a myriad of different technology and weaponry hubs, each one more mysterious than the last. Darcy's momentarily torn between keeping up with Steve and peeking into rooms she's only heard rumors about. But then Steve turns a corner, slipping out of sight, and the panic that rips through her is enough to negate any desire to snoop. She's seen Steve get irritated, crabby even, but never flat out angry and the fallout could be ugly. Headlines are already forming in her mind…_Ruthless Beating at Stark Tower_ or something pithier, maybe _Cap Bags a Bird_.

The laugh comes out strangled, and hysterical. Sure, Clint deserves retribution, lord knows he's dished it out long enough, but Darcy's always assumed that payback would come at her own hands. Short of breaking all his arrows or slipping a mickey in his water, there's not much she could do that would hurt him physically. Steve, well, she's suddenly starting to feel sorry for the archer.

Almost.

"Steve, wait!" she shouts again, but he's already across the wide elevator bay, his long strides carrying him directly at Clint Barton, who's waiting patiently for the doors to open.

"Hey, Steve-" he says, but Clint doesn't have time to finish his greeting. Steve picks him up by the front of his jacket and slams him against the concrete wall, hard. Clint's head bounces against the flat surface, ricocheting forward with an alarming force. His instincts kick in, and he grabs Steve around the wrists, trying to wrestle his way free, but there's easily a five-inch difference in height between the two men, and Steve uses that to his advantage, pinning Clint so far off the ground that he has nothing to use for leverage. With his fists shoved into the smaller man's chest, Clint can hardly breathe, let alone move.

There's a long, pregnant pause as Steve glares at Clint, his cheeks flushed with anger. There's more venom in that look than should be legal, and his jaw muscle twitches ominously. Once, when Darcy couldn't sleep, she laid in bed, fascinated by the way Steve slept. The deeper the dream, the tighter he would clinch his jaw, grinding his teeth together until that same muscle would jump. When he's unconscious, it's endearing and a little bit sad, because Darcy knows that he's reliving memories as much as dreams. But that's his subconscious, and this is real, and Darcy's suddenly glad she's not on the receiving end of his wrath.

"What's the deal with the picture?" Steve doesn't raise his voice, but it still cuts deep. "Do you really get off on messing with other people's heads?"

He slams Clint against the wall again, hard enough to pop a button off his jacket. Clint's eyes are beginning to bug out, his face a dangerous shade of red. He's stopped trying to break free, but he's still holding on to Steve's wrists, trying to force him back enough to catch a breath. "What picture?" he gasps.

A slight tilt of Steve's head is all that's needed. Clint rolls his eyes away, looking to the elevator doors, which have yet to open. If they did, would there be anyone there willing to help him out, or would everyone back away, afraid to step between two very dangerous men?

"It was just a joke," he says, his words labored between gasps for breath. There's no conviction behind the declaration, deflating the words so that they're nothing more than cheap trappings. "Darcy was so gaga over you - I just wanted to have some fun with her."

Steve slams him against the wall once more, harder than before, and then let's Clint drop. His feet hit the floor, but his legs are too weak to stop the descent. Clint Barton, master assassin and instigator extraordinaire, slides down the wall until he's seated in a crumpled heap on the floor.

"Some things you just don't joke about," is all Steve says. Without another word, he turns and back down the corridor, retracing his steps to the stairs.

Clint looks up, catching Darcy's eye. His face is still red, and a vein bulges out in the center of his forehead. Even with three hard blows to a concrete wall, he's alert, taking in everything and assessing the threat.

Darcy's never had the opportunity to watch in of them in action, let alone Clint. Sure, there's news footage, but it tends to be grainy and far away, never revealing true skill. She's heard both Steve and Bruce describe Clint's prowess with a bow, his ability to take down bad guys from a dizzying distance with impossible shots. She doubts that, in all his time in combat, he's ever been in a situation like this. He's used to watching from above, not going hand to hand with a man who could eat him for breakfast.

"Darcy, look I –"

She doesn't stick around to hear his apology. She knows Clint is sorry, not for any pain he caused her, but for the dressing down he just suffered at Steve's hands. The humiliation was just enough to make a point. He won't be bothering her ever again. She turns, and chases after Steve, hoping that he's gotten whatever it is that set him off out of his system so that they can talk rationally. The irony isn't lost on her – she's usually the hotheaded one who acts or reacts without thinking. Playing the peacemaker is something new.

But today continues to be one full of surprises. Steve is two landings up, waiting for her to catch up. He's leaning out over the stairwell, hands braced on the railing as he waits for her to ascend. His cheeks are still red, but some of the tension that was bunched up in his jaw and shoulders is slowly working free. He's a far cry from the man in the picture, hair disheveled and shirt untucked, but he's infinitely more human, which she finds comforting. It's kind of like catching Muriel unloading presents under the tree the Christmas she was seven, and swearing on a stack of proverbial bibles that she would never let on about the truth. There was no sadness at losing the mystery, only joy at being including in something bigger, something special, that only a few people share. This isn't different – people don't know this side of Steve, and they probably wouldn't believe it they did.

"Hi," Darcy says. She runs her thumb along his cheekbone, smiling as he leans into her hand, his eyes closing. "You okay?"

Steve breathes out a silent laugh and turns his face into her hand. His lips are warm against her palm.

"I'll take that as a yes." She flattens her fingers against Steve's cheek, counting as his eyelashes brush back and forth against her skin. "No one's ever gone medieval on someone's ass for me. I was half scared for Clint."

"And the other half?" Steve asks softly.

"I don't ever want to make you mad, but watching you unload on someone else because you think I've been slighted is kind of hot in an antiquated 'oh my hero' sort of way."

He laughs again, and this time he really means it.

"I can handle a lot of things, Darcy. Let them make fun of me and what I stand for, I don't care. But anyone who tries to undermine this…" he gestures between them, his hand accidentally brushing against her chest. "Well, to steal one of Tony's preferred lines, I will fuck their shit up."

Darcy drops her hand to her mouth, trying to smile through the mock indignation. "You said fuck!"

"That I did." Steve grabs her around the waist, pulling her close. She's ready with another smart comment, but it's hard to throw out movie quotes or other smart quips with his tongue in her mouth. Something's broken loose in Steve, some fetter or guard that he uses to keep himself in check ninety-eight percent of the time. "I get a bit pissed off when someone messes with my girl."

Somewhere above, a door slams, and voices float down the stairs. The words are garbled, intermittent words coming through with no real meaning. Steve pulls back and runs his hand through his hair, not so much to fix any damage, but out of habit.

"Do you need to go back to the lab?"

"No," she says. There's still work to be done, but she has no desire to go back there today.

"Good," Steve says. He grabs her hand, and starts up the stairs. Darcy has to jog to keep up.

"Where are we going?"

Steve glances back over his shoulder, and he's actually smiling. It's not the one the photographers want, but that's okay, because she knows this one is real, and not something forced.

"Home. I don't particularly want to be out in public with you right now." He glances up, eyes narrowing. "I gave them enough to think about today."

He leads Darcy up a few flights, and out into the lobby. As they climb, she's slowing down and paying attention to the things she missed. Security cameras on each landing, capturing all activity up and down the steps. There are cameras neatly nestled into panels in the waiting area too. Everywhere she looks, Darcy is finding cameras.

She doesn't say anything until they hit the pavement in front of the tower. It's cold outside, and their coats are back in the lab. Steve flags a cab, which screeches to a halt in front of them. He opens the door, stepping aside for her to climb in.

Darcy hesitates just long enough to whisper in his ear, "You wanted them to watch, didn't you?"

Steve smiles, placing his hand on the small of her back and nudging her forward, into the back of the car. "Battle tactics, Miss Lewis, battle tactics."

Somewhere, up above in the tower, Tony Stark is no doubt reviewing the altercation footage. Steve sent a message alright, but it wasn't just for Clint Barton. Everyone is on notice, now, and it's highly doubtful that anyone will be making light of their relationship again.

"Oh Cap," she says, shaking her head. "You are so getting laid when we get home."

Darcy slips in the back of the cab, laughing at Steve's strangled cough. Life will never be boring with him, and she's fine with that.


End file.
